Story of the Orchid: Chapter 1
The following is the first chapter of a six part history of the Order of the Elder Orchid and its Township of Darel'horth, written by Sir Ferenold Stormshend. Chapter 1 It was; as it always was. The clouds painted grey, looming over me as those crystalline tears fell down from storm-ridden heights. The landscape a cascade of browns and greens imposed upon one another, seeming to meld and melt amongst one another as if the world was but a mere canvas for a youthful surrealist. It was a solemn time of the day; the time in which men were given to contemplation, and yet of course it seemed to be that I stood in the stark nakedness of solitude, in the empty expanse; the gulf between the blood-soaked horizon and the flattened plain. I strode onwards, I strode, for it was the only thing I knew now, and I came upon that primordial cliff, that which was spoken of in tales of old. And perhaps I was merely a brash fool; a child, who’s favored profession was that of one who acted out fairy-tales. Yet at that moment at least, I cared not for their embittered musings as I stood upon that cliff, because I was a man, and I knew with a surety that only hailed from the soul, an intimacy that could only be expressed from the bowels of the earth to the self, that my actions were ones of the utmost profundity, that the ground I walked upon was indeed sacred, and thus I was sacred. Good does not beget evil, evil does not beget good. And the sacred does not birth defilement, any more than a corruption births divinity. And all those thoughts, the woes of the misbegotten past, they passed by me in an ember streak of time, and they were indeed still present, permeating my vision, yet in a way they had gone now, replaced with the distinct sensation of the moment. And I tilted my head upwards, the wind did not caress my face, as it oft’ did. The wind ripped and tore at me, a coming storm beckoned me downwards yet I still firm nonetheless. My feet planted upon the rocky cliff, as my spirit wandered to tales of old: I thought of Bargluf, whom slew the mountain-beasts with a rocky fist, I thought of how he stood upon the woods with his lips curved upwards, and I thought of Farlund in his youth. Farlund Isenstrider; it was as if the name was sacred to me, going beyond a mere mortal man, he had passed on from such trivialities. He was; as he always was. An immortal spirit. Did I know where he dwelt? Was I a speaker of the spirits, a seer of the ancestors? The world did not tell me where he dwelt. Not here, not here; I loved these lands, but they were not my own. This was the South, this is where the seven sons lied in wait, this is where the Blackwald laid, the darkened grove that inspired unknown terror and wonder in men, the grove that had granted me freedom, the grove that had restrained me. I could see it in the distance, as I stood firm on the ledge, demeanor taut. A figure in a mythic story. A hero in an ancient tale. The black spires of wood jutted from the pale earth. The twisted mockeries of trees appeared to be dead, without life, a barren wasteland of a grove, yet a spirit saw past the veil of lies that accompanies the gift of sight. The pillars that grazed the face of the heavens were many, there always were many. Was there ever a tree in the Blackwald that had fallen? Was there ever a man whom had dared raised axe to fell them? Was there ever a day in which the Blackwald paused in its hymn, or ceased its eternal song? Was there ever a time, I ask, in which these trees were not here, were they not present even at the dawn, does their reflection not echo back to ancient dawns? I paused; I was no longer a hero in an ancient tale, no longer that figure, the all-knowing sage whom stood at the epitome of existence. I was naught but a boy as my eyes fell upon that mass of boughs, and I smiled, I smiled with gaiety. I thought back to the line in that old song, I do not know why, but my mind fell upon it in due measure. “Many-a-manly chest ‘twas throbbing for the bless-ed mornin’ light!” And it was indeed composed of a bless-ed song, but my breast did not throb for the morning light but instead longed for nothing but a suspension of the present, dusk, in which these towers sat stagnated, in a stillness that I could only embrace. I strode towards the Blackwald, my feet slipped from the cliff downwards, naught but a small jump, and I could not see it, no, but I knew it was there in the distance nonetheless, past these pale-brown oaks, across the roaring stream. It –is-; as it always was. It is a gleeful remembrance, it is a rose-tinted aroma, it is a mind dispelled of the shackles of mortality, by the touch of divinity, by a spark of spiritual revelation that is not a mere spark but the beginning of a woolen string that subtly wraps around each ashen tree and even the most pallid of hands. ---- ''O, glorious Blackwald! Let me not suffer without you, let me not feel your presence, for Gilneas I long for thee as a man doth long for that sun-touched maiden. The cruel mistress of fate has tied a leash unto my spirit, and though I may indeed travel ‘cross this mortal realm, it is but with suffering and woe that I do. I have dwelt amongst the elves and their ilk, my gaze hath appraised the dragons, ah, that foul adultery I have committed as I fled from you, Gilneas! What temptresses, O the lusts of travel I hath indeed befallen I, forgive me! ''And perhaps the Blackwald responded, perhaps it did, although one would think I a man whom had fallen to insanity, I shall humbly confess that I, that I am in bless-ed solitude. It ‘twas a harmonious cry in response, of acceptance, I was welcomed with due gaiety, and so my pace did not slow an iota, and so my stride did not falter, nor was there a modicum of hesitation. ''I came upon the Blackwald, I paused, the void-drowned birches, sprawled across my sight, my back to the beloved green of Stormglen. And perhaps I was woe to pause, but it is the pause a man experiences when in reverence, the momentary eclipse between reaching for the holy and communing with it. And then it broke, a hammer shattering glass as I entered. ''It is; as it always shall be. Category:Documents Category:Story of the Orchid